kill the day
by public enemy no. 5
Summary: look for me when you're inside. look at me before you go. —75th hunger games, multiple pairings [for caesar's palace shipping week]
1. your

1

_finnick _&amp;_ annie_

* * *

On the morning of his departure, she makes him granola with strawberries and sweet cream for breakfast. It's one of his favorites for the fact that the strawberry season passes quickly in many districts, but even quicker in District 4 because their soil has never been nourishing enough to grow anything other than hard, sour fruits, so the majority of their succulents are imported from outside.

He eats his meal quietly, savoring the crunch of the grain, the sweetness of each berry, the mellow smoothness of the cream. Pleasing in both taste and texture, and so very characteristic of Annie - Annie on her good days, collecting interesting bits of seashell and displaying them proudly on their mantle, as well as Annie on her bad days, jagged, sandy. The thought of that, of Annie having one of her episodes and him not being there to stop her from hurting herself, fills him with a low, simmering dread. Its a queasy feeling that lingers in his gut and makes each bite a little tougher to swallow, and by the time he's finished eating, he's begun to feel sick.

Annie turns, brown hair bundled into a loose bun, face haggard. "Let me wash it," she says, collecting his bowl. When he protests and reaches for it, she grabs his wrist, her grip surprisingly painful. The corded muscles of her arm are stretched wire-tight against the cover of pale skin. "No," she repeats, firmly. "You should get dressed. You have to be at the train by ten o'clock."

The strain on _her _\- and how much worse must it be for _her_? - is clearly evident, defeating the reply lodged in the back of his throat. It's about her. It's always been about her. Gently, he kisses her on the forehead and manages a smile. "Okay. If that's fine with you."

She softens. "Yes. It's fine. Finn-" Annie takes a deep breath, as if in consideration of what she is about to say, then apparently discards the thought and resumes her washing. "It's getting late. You should hurry."

Once he's changed, he shrugs on a heavy wool-lined coat and Annie drapes a knitted shawl over her shoulders. In the front of their house is a car and a chauffeur, both paid for with his winnings. The driver, Marcus, helps them both into the backseat before starting the drive to the station. There's no need for luggage.

Mags, having gotten there earlier, is waiting for them on a bench when he and Annie finally arrive. His mentor hugs Annie first, and then him, whispering something into his ear that he can't catch, sound whisked away by the rumbling herald of the oncoming train's approach. He is filled with a strange trepidation as the train comes to a stop, screeching against the tracks, velvet interior parting softly to admit him into its carriage. There is Annie close to him, her body warm and comforting, and Annie is looking at him hollowly. She grips him by the collar, pulls him close to her, says, "Don't - don't -" Her lips quiver and her tears begin to spill over.

Finnick kisses her on the lips this time, carefully extricating her arms from his jacket, tells her, "I won't."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

"Sir-" A voice clears, and he swivels to meet the helmeted stare of a white-clad Peacekeeper. "I'm afraid that it's time for you to leave."

Uncertainly, he looks to Mags. The old woman nods at him, as to assure him that he's doing the right thing. He walks, cold, into the train, through a corridor, to the window, and watches. He watches Annie go by, face a blur, watches until the station has disappeared and the district is far behind him.

"Will she be alright?" he asks Mags, who, by answer, places her hand over his. The two of them, sitting on a couch, say nothing, only relying on the feeling of each other's touch to fill the silence.


	2. ghost

2

_cato _&amp; _katniss_

* * *

(This is the thing that haunts her)

In the dream, she is the only one top of the Cornucopia and he is lying in the same patch of grass, soil damp with blood and other unnameable fluids. His face blurs, going in and out of focus, and she has to really concentrate to get a close look at him, like his image is protesting against her vision.

He says _please_ with what he has of a mouth. Everything about him is unrecognizable, from head to foot. It is a wonder that she was ever afraid of him when all he was just like the others - meat, meat and nothing else, no substance to him, no _assembly_. Wasted away. Food for dogs.

_Please_, and she trembles with the effort it takes to lift her bow. When did it get so heavy? When she shot the boy from District 1, it was _fast_: pull and release and the sound of the arrow meeting flesh. Now her arms rebel against reaching for her quiver, grasping the last arrow carefully smuggled past fate and the silent machinations of the arena, preparing to kill.

Hunt him down. Animal, animal, just a boy made of meat, should have been easier.

She thinks his eyes still have the strength left in them to look at her, see the straight line her arrow traces through the air as it whistles toward him. They have seen and been seen by each other, and she will not forget this, the sight of his body, _this_-

_Please._

_I'm sorry._

_I'm sorry._

_I'm sorry._


	3. still

3

_haymitch _&amp; _effie_

* * *

It's the night before the Quell, late eleven o'clock bordering twelve, and he can't sleep. Won't sleep. His whole body thrums with restless energy, unable to reconcile itself with the fact that he won't be the one entering the arena tomorrow. Katniss and Peeta will. And maybe that's even worse.

_Get a grip. _He's supposed to be a mentor, not a worried old wash-up. The kids will be fine.

But the feeling doesn't go away.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck. _He can feel the need for a drink clawing at the back of his throat, an itch just out of reach. _But you could reach it_, pipes up the drunk in his head. _Go on. There's a bottle of whiskey downstairs, or a nice aged wine if you'd prefer it. _

_Go ahead._

No. No, shut up. Think about the other options. Coffee or tea. Juice. Now isn't the time-

_You know you want it bad, _says the drunk. _How many days has it been, besides? Not even a day. Hours. Do it._

Before he knows it, he's gotten out of bed, shivering against the bitch-cold chill of the room, and begun walking downstairs into the kitchen. His eyesight, already poor by regular standards, is none the better for navigating the twelfth suite, and he curses as he kicks something round and smooth away. Groggily, he blinks. _Fuck._

Effie's there. The scotch decanter from this evening, half-full when he left it, is down to its last dregs. Effie swings around on her stool and regards him placidly in the way a frog might regard a fly seconds before it catches it with its tongue and eats it. The thing he kicked away, he sees, is another bottle. The whole room reeks of alcohol, hard and sour.

Haymitch swallows.

"What are you doing here?" Effie asks, typically sharp Capitol accent with all its high affectations dulled by scotch. "You, sir-" She hiccups. "-are meant to be in bed. With the children. No. Hm." She pauses to think. "Go back to sleep."

Pointedly, he strolls across to the table where she's sitting, picks up the decanter, and drains what's left inside. A pleasant warmth spreads down his throat, through his body, reaching his fingertips and toes.

"Animal," slurs Effie. "Nothing more than a big... old... oaf."

"I think you've had enough," he remarks, no longer as thirsty as he was before. Fine, actually. Or almost fine. The heat's gathered in his belly, comfortable. "Get some rest."

Effie hisses. "Piss off. You aren't _my _handler, you... beast."

When he picks her up, she writhes in his arms with a ferocity that would put some of the toughest Seam alley cats to shame. "Fuck you," she mumbles. "Abernathy... Haymitch... I know, I know." But the fight leaves her quickly, and by the time he's gotten inside her room, she's snoring soundly. Imagine that.

Carefully, he sets her on her bed and drapes a comforter over her to keep the chill off. He hovers beside her, worried and unsure of what to do. Finally, he shakes his head and walks out, shutting the door behind him. Back at the table, he holds an empty glass, entertaining the thought of going into the wine cabinet and pouring himself another little bit, just a little, enough to tide him over until it's time. He doesn't do it. He doesn't have the drink, not even when the thirst returns, full fury.

Outside, the sun rises, roaring over Panem like an angry god.

Morning.


	4. lingers

4

_beetee_ &amp; _wiress_

* * *

He is holding you as you break down into the individually ugly things buried within your head. He is holding you under a canopy of sweltering tropical heat and sweating vegetation, the humidity so thick you can practically taste it on the back of your tongue - it tastes like overripe fruit. You are shivering despite the carefully calibrated temperature of the arena, cold in a way that is neither physical nor mental, but profoundly visceral, almost spiritual. Details, once laid out with surgical neatness before you, threaten to slip away into the rush of the salt tide, sweeping towards you to jettison you into the depths of the arena's ocean like flotsam. Insignificant. You are only Wiress, a small piece of a much larger plan. You are not so important.

But _he _gives you importance. "Wiress." Speaks your name once, voice very quiet. "Wiress." Gives your name meaning, definition. Makes the chemicals in your brain all pink and airy. Spatial, temporal, all things cease to exist. Speaks your name three times, and you try to say something back, something that will let him know what he means to you after a lifetime of hesitation, but your mouth will not allow even this, so you reach out and adjust his glasses and he smiles in a sad way at you, face framed by artificial sunlight-

-you.


	5. here

5

_johanna_ &amp; _katniss_

* * *

She comes to in a white room, strapped to a cold metal table. They ask her where Katniss Everdeen is and what she part she played in setting up the shot that breached the arena, a historic first. When she doesn't give them the answers they want, they shock her and shoot her up with drugs - relaxants in an attempt to get her mouth loose enough to spill, other stimulants and psychedelics to put her on edge. Her body is one big chemical cloud, slipping steadily away from her working brain with each interrogation.

Sometimes, it'll be bad enough that she's on the verge of giving up what little she knows just to coax some water or bread from her captors, but there's always enough of the old, proud Johanna Mason left at the bottom of the barrel that keeps her from talking. That, and the thought of Everdeen or Odair or even Abernathy being turned over to the Capitol to be put under knife and needle and turned inside-out for answers. She's still got some steel in her, and she won't pussy out of what she promised and lay all their plans bare like some cockless aristocrat cowering at the sight of a gun. Not now, when it's so close to being completed.

Johanna is no one's bitch, least of all the Capitol's.

_Fight them, Katniss. Be the toughest cunt you can be. Jack up Snow. I've done my share._

_Now do yours. _


End file.
